Page 27 of The Cherry Trees of Rosings
She would wake earlier than usual, go for a walk with paper and pencil in her reticule, sometimes find Mr. Darcy (usually near the cherry trees), and then either walk with him or write the letter for Miss Georgiana Darcy. It was the hardest thing to do.
And not just because the words would inevitably bring up strong emotions in her.
There was no knowing when Mr. Darcy would suddenly disappear. Sometimes in the middle of a sentence. Still they were plodding along and half the letter was done.
Turmoil was Elizabeth’s constant companion through it all.
If anyone had asked her a few months ago to comment on Mr. Darcy’s capacity to love or feel strong emotions, she would have probably scoffed and said disdain was the only acceptable emotion to such a man. She could never say such a thing anymore.
Not after writing his letter to his sister.
It was so full of love that Elizabeth found herself crying to sleep every night.
She could not imagine what Miss Darcy would feel on receiving such a missive. On knowing that her dear brother was dying. Or already dead.
And walking with Mr. Darcy made Elizabeth’s own heart twist in despair, knowing that he was not long for this world. It brought on tears so frequently that she had stopped feeling embarrassed about it in his company.
She wondered what she would have made of it if she had known—six months ago—all that would transpire between them. Perhaps she would have scoffed at that too.
Oh, how she loved laughing at the follies of others!
It was what made her her father’s favourite. Their shared love of catching the absurd in full display. But Elizabeth did not think she could be so flippant anymore.
…it felt like a fool’s way of dallying with the world.
Chapter 18:
The Colonel
On the nineteenth day from the moment she saw Mr. Darcy’s apparition for the first time under the cherry trees, something changed.
Elizabeth woke early as usual.
But soon she was engulfed in a furore when a certain Colonel Fitzwilliam showed up at the parsonage looking for her.
“Lady Catherine will be so pleased to see you have arrived with news!”
Mr. Collins prattled away as Charlotte settled them all in the parlour with tea and scones. Elizabeth took the chair next to Maria. It was at an angle from the Colonel and afforded her the chance to observe him without the full force of the realization that something would transpire very soon. Something unknowable.
“I hope Mr. Darcy has been recovering well,” Mr. Collins continued. “We have had him in our thoughts constantly. I was inspired to lead a special prayer and sermon this past Sunday to bring her ladyship some comfort during these tough times. If I may be so bold, Lady Catherine was especially pleased with it.”
He picked up a scone from the plate Charlotte was offering to everyone.
“She said to me, ‘Mr. Collins, you have outdone yourself on behalf of my nephew!’ And I said to her, ‘It is but my duty, your ladyship, as a man of the cloth. The lifelong pursuit of offering sustenance to the spirit, and bringing the word of God as succour against the darkening of hope, is but the noblest of actions one might do.’”
He eyed the scone in his hand for a brief moment, before he—very clearly—chose to forgohis sustenancein order to speak some more.
"I do believe, if I say so myself, that the role of a clergyman never truly ends. One must be ever ready to tend to his flock. And more so the munificent patroness—as everyone in Hunsford and the surrounds recognizes Lady Catherine to be—during her own period of tribulation.”
Mr. Collins eyed the scone again.
“I believe the sermon brought some comfort to Miss de Bourgh, however small and humble,” he continued. “It must be quite the distress to know her betrothed lies indisposed in locales unknown. It would surely be a relief to her to know such little details. Would you not agree, sir?”
Mr. Collins finally took a bite of the scone while fixing a hopeful look on Colonel Fitzwilliam.
The eagerness to discover such an elusive—and invaluable—detail for Lady Catherine was undisguised on his face. His jowls moved rapidly, crunching the scone between his teeth in a manner that Elizabeth always found repugnant yet riveting. She held her peace and sipped her tea.
It had not escaped her notice how Mr. Collins had left out, from his rather long-winded speech, all the criticisms Lady Catherine had heaped on him after the aforementioned (and dubiously honourable) Sunday service.
